On Tuesday I received a letter from [X], which was one of the sweetest that she has ever sent me. It does sound as if she’s missing me quite a lot, and I feel so guilty that I’m actually enjoying myself. I do love her very much. At the time of writing this, I feel no doubt whatsoever that we’ll be married one day.

On Saturday night, as a result of me feeling so sex-starved of late, I decided to masturbate. But I was doing this while lying naked on my bed, and with the light on. Something that I only discovered after I had finished was that the Venetian blinds permit anyone from across the road to see all that might be going on inside a room, with full clarity - merely depending on the direction in which the slats are slanted. In my case I was giving an erotic exhibition to anyone opposite, who had their room on a plane higher than my own.

My misfortunes did not end there however. Perhaps it was because my nerves were so much on edge all round, but whatever the reason, I woke up in the night to find that I had wet my bed - for the first and last time in many years, I hope! I was in a complete panic as to how I could get everything dried out before daylight, when they would come to make the bed. I managed to wash (and dry) the offending patches on the sheets, but the mattress proved more of a problem. I did my best however, and it doesn’t seem as if my lapses in hygiene and decorum have been noticed.

There was still no letter from [X] waiting for me at the Post Office. I am beginning to feel worried. I’ve not had a letter from her since I arrived here at Madrid. Something awful may have happened. The sexy letter that I posted to her more than a week ago might have fallen into her parents’ hands, and they might now be intercepting all my communications, and forbidding her to write to me. But I certainly hope there is no foundation to these fears!

I was very disappointed on arriving home at Longleat to find a letter from [X] saying that she couldn’t come south until the end of the week, when her parents did. Not that this matters in itself, but it does make a nonsense of all the promises in her letters to fling herself into my arms just as soon as I was back in the country. On rereading them, they sound a bit shallow and insincere. And when she did eventually arrive back on Friday, she rang me up to say she couldn’t come over to see me until Tuesday - which made the matter worse. Nevertheless, it was wonderful hearing her voice again. A stream of inconsequential chatter came flowing down the telephone, into which I only managed to interject a minimal few remarks. But that’s typical, so I feel as if I’ve seen her. But I still long for Tuesday.

Today Tuesday will be a day that I shall remember for the rest of my life. My plans to marry [X] have been shattered.

She arrived by car around midday. I watched her driving up from my window, and I noted how her expression was all set, as if she was tensing herself up for a difficult task. Then on entering my drawing room, she stood in the door and declared that she had something terrible to tell me. She then told me that she had been thinking about our relationship while she’d been up in Scotland, and had come to the conclusion that we were too different in our fundamental approaches to life - largely because I am anti-Christian, whereas she now feels herself quite fervently Christian. This marks a difference in position which would always rankle in our hearts, and would trigger so many other subjects for disagreement. And that was no sound basis for a marriage. She felt that it was best to make the break right now, after not having seen each other for such a long time, rather than to become reinvolved, with the prospect for separation postponed.

I surprised myself in just how calmly I managed to sit there listening to what she had to say. I felt a strange distance from the whole crisis, as if I was going over it in my mind retrospectively, rather than being right there in the middle of it. What made the situation a lot more difficult however, was the fact that two of the cleaners picked upon this half hour to come washing the floorboards just outside my drawing room door. And there were pauses when I’m inclined to suppose that they were just on their knees, and listening. [X]’s voice always carries far, and it amazes me that she never supposes that other people are feasting on her words. Anyway eventually, I could take it no longer, and opened to the door to tell them that they could give my passage a miss for the time being. They looked quite offended.

[X] was being sweet about the whole thing. She swore that she loved me with all her heart. It wasn’t from any deficiency in the love that she was breaking things off with me. She also swore that it had nothing to do with any new love - that there is no other man in her life. And I accept what she says as true.

The awful part is that I find myself agreeing with her, deep inside my heart. There is too much direct conflict in our viewpoints for us ever to find the basis for a fusion of ideas, such as would be necessary for marriage. It’s not so much that I find her Christian views to be an obstacle. There’s enough in Christianity which holds my sympathy and respect, for me to take all that in my stride. But I do see how my own views might jar within her own attitude. And it wouldn’t be sincere if I now proclaimed myself to be Christian, just to restore the idea that we were still going to marry - although she did indeed hint that this might be all that was necessary. But if I’d softened my line on that particular point, there would soon have been others where she would be demanding similar adjustment - until I was no longer the person that I am trying to fit together for myself, under the guiding influence of my own individualism. But I find it curious to note that, when the crisis finally came, it was [X] (rather than myself) who finally had the courage to reach the decision that a rupture must be made.

The only time that I really felt miserable was when she wouldn’t even take a look at the picture of the Alcazar at Granada, which I had painted for her. Nor would she accept the homecoming gifts which I had bought for her in Toledo - the evening bag, the mantilla shawl and the bracelet of ornately engraved hearts. They will never be hers, but I don’t see how I can ever feel like giving them to someone else.

She said that we could make love (in our limited way) just once more. But even here there was a problem - what with the cleaners, or anyone else, liable to knock on my door at any moment. I suggested that we go upstairs to one of the bedrooms that have no particular usage at the present moment, so that we might really hope not to be disturbed. She seemed as loving as ever. But quite incredibly, within a minute of having my orgasm, there was the rattle of someone trying the door handle - only to find the door locked. With some embarrassment, we hurried to straighten ourselves out.

It was Algar, who had come up to examine all the rooms in this part of the house, in consideration of my plan to extend my foothold in the house. I had an earnest talk with him for a few minutes, which disconcerted [X] because he had diverted my attention from herself. In fact she was behaving peeved when I finally rejoined her in the Dowager Suite. Nor was there time to rectify the matter, since she had to be home by teatime. We kissed, and that was all. Nor have I any idea when I might be seeing her again. She says that she would prefer it if we can keep our distance from one another for a while. And she doesn’t want me to write - although I shall send her one last letter explaining that I do understand, and that I’ll always love her. I can’t think of anything more that I should add.

Or perhaps just to say that I am feeling truly miserable now that there has been time for me to reflect upon what has occurred. There are tears which have fallen on this page, which are quite genuine. I’m not as tough as I’d like to be when it comes to this kind of situation. Perhaps I should avail myself of how I feel in order to create something that would capture a savour of it. I haven’t written any poetry now for many years, but I might try my hand at it once again.

You told me that we must part,
and my eyes were dry;
but I quietly cried inside
when we said goodbye.

Now that I stand alone,
(and I fear it’s weak,)
I shamelessly clear the tear
from my scalded cheek.

Finding we meet no more,
I have felt the cost
with a love that alone is known
when the love is lost.

Walking the woods
I findthe remotest clue,
like the sunlight gleam on a stream,
and I think of you.

I strain in the silent night
for the sound to hear
of the tenderer word that stirred
the recording ear.

Dispersed are the fantasies
I was harbouring;
so frown not if I stall the fall
by remembering.